


candy floss

by eroticgropefest (goldfishsunglasses)



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-12-23 05:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11983149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishsunglasses/pseuds/eroticgropefest
Summary: an accident in class turns simon’s hair pink, triggering old memories for baz and bringing the two of them closer than before





	candy floss

**Baz**

I smell Snow before I see him. I’d know the scent anywhere. The cloying smokiness of him; forever the cruelest joke. I hear him too, clomping up the stairs in that way of his. Like he’s always got somewhere to be, and he has to be bloody loud to get there.

He gets closer to the room, and I brace myself. I don’t know what kind of mood he’s in, but I don’t feel like fighting today. I haven’t been to any of my classes . Instead, I’ve been working on a paper for my last one of the day, and I still haven’t finished. (It’s Snow’s fault, of course. I’ve had days, but he keeps distracting me.)

The door to our room flies open with a bang and there’s Snow, breathing heavy and scowling. He looks like he’s just been for a run. I almost comment on his appearance, something snide and cutting. Something sure to remind him that we hate each other.

Then I notice his hair. It’s…

It’s pink. Simon’s hair–his normally bronze hair–is  _pink._ Not just pink, but the colour and texture of the candy floss. The kind I used to get whenever I went to the fair with my mother when I was a child. When my mother was still alive. The memory hits me hard. She’d despised the stuff. Hated the way it made everything sticky and pink. But she knew I loved it, and made sure to get me one every time.

Feelings that had been locked away for years threaten to spill out, and I turn my head. I can’t look at him. Not with that hair. It hurts too much. I can feel Snow glaring at me, though I can’t imagine why. Surely he can’t be blaming  _me_  for this. I wasn’t even in class today; again, I’ve been working on this paper. I wonder what I missed.

He clears his throat. “This is all your fault.”

**Simon**

Baz’s mouth falls open. He looks confused and I wonder for a moment if he really was behind this. I could swear I heard Dev and Niall snickering before Gareth–my partner today–thrust his hips forward and gleefully shouted the spell that had surrounded me in a sickly-sweet cloud of pastel smoke.

Had I imagined it all? Could this really have been an accident? Wait, why is Baz here? Now that I think of it, he wasn’t in any of our classes today. I don’t know how I didn’t realize.

I don’t know how I’m surprised to see him here in our room. It’s not that he’s here often during the day–he almost never is; it’s just that I’m so bloody lucky that my arch-enemy is here to witness the aftermath of a spell gone wrong.

All I want to do is hide in my room until I can figure out what to do about my hair. My pink hair. My bloody pink hair that smells like candy and feels like spun sugar. I’m half-tempted to test whether or not it’s the real thing, but the thought of eating my own hair is enough of a turn-off that I don’t even try.

One of the homes I was in as a child took us to a fair once. We didn’t get to do much, only got to go on one ride. They let us have a pretzel and a lemonade, but nothing else. Especially not the candy floss I craved. I don’t realize how far I’ve fallen into the memory until Baz’s snapping fingers shred it to pieces.

“What?” I growl.

He sneers. “I was just asking what happened to your hair.”

“Didn’t know you cared what happened to me.”

A strange look passes his face then, but I don’t think anything of it. Baz is always making strange faces around me. He probably does it on purpose. To distract me from whatever he’s plotting at the moment. Speaking of plotting…

“Why are you even surprised? You planned this with your—with your–” I don’t know what to call them, “your  _minions_.”

Baz looks confused, his perfect brow wrinkling. I don’t believe him for a second. There’s no way this was an accident. Gareth may be terrible at magick but–

“In case you haven’t noticed,  _Snow_ ,” Baz drawls, “I haven’t left this room all day.”

I square my shoulders. “That doesn’t prove anything. You could have planned this at anytime.”

**Baz**

“How can I make you believe me?”

I don’t know what else to do. I’m almost begging. I’m pathetic. It’s not like I haven’t done worse. Way worse. Why do I care about taking responsibility for something so minor. (I know why.) (I really am pathetic.)

“Fix it,” he challenges.

I nod, grab my wand, and feel a flash of guilt at the way he flinches. I want to reach out, touch his arm, and tell him I won’t hurt him. But I’d be lying. I _have_ hurt him. I  _will_ hurt him. But not right now, not in this moment. The words are on my lips. I point my wand. He closes his eyes, and I start casting spells.

*** * ***

By the time I finally get Snow’s hair back to it’s normal colour, the sun is starting to set. The sky is streaked in shades of pink and orange; It’s beautiful. I don’t realize I’ve spoken out loud until Simon says, “yeah, it is.” Then he laughs.

“What is it?” I ask.

“The sky. The clouds. They look like my hair did. Like candy floss.”

“I haven’t had candy floss since I was five years old,” I say. “My mother–” I stop. This feels too personal to share. As if Snow cares about my childhood sob stories.

“What?” he asks, and it’s almost a whisper.

His question hangs in the air, floating in between us. It feels important. Like answering it could change things. Which is bollocks, of course. Nothing can change us. One deep talk in our shared room won’t make us friends, and it definitely won’t make us anything more. No matter how much I’d like it to.

“My mother took me to the fair often. As a child, I mean. And we would get…” I can’t finish the sentence, but he’s nodding like he understands.

“I never met my mother,” Snow says, and I can’t hide my snort.

“This isn’t news, Simon.”

“Shut up, Baz,” he retorts, but not meanly. He looks soft in the fading light. Vulnerable. His face is open and child-like and I watch as he takes a breath. As if to steady himself. “I never met my mother,” he says for the second time. “Or my father, but I guess that never seemed as important.” Snow shrugs. “Everyone needs a mother, you know?”

I nod. I know how he feels. Even now I feel the loss of my mother as acutely as I did when I was five. It’s a pain that never fades. But I got to know her. Snow never had that opportunity. I find myself mourning his loss along with mine.

Snow bites his lip; I wait for him to continue. The silence is thick and beginning to border on uncomfortable. Snow fidgets where he stands, seemingly at loss for words.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” I say softly. “Not if you don’t want to.”

My words seem to comfort him. He visibly relaxes, and before I get a chance to offer, he sits down next to me on my bed. His thigh presses against mine, warm and firm and familiar. I’m tempted to touch it; it’s so close, it’s right there. All of Simon is right there. But Simon isn’t mine to touch, so I sit as straight and as still as I can, hardly daring to breathe as Simon shifts his position. Once he seems comfortable, he lifts his arms above his head and stretches, making the hem of his blue t-shirt ride up.

My mouth goes dry. Simon remains oblivious, scratching at his stomach. I can’t stop staring as the hem goes higher and higher. Finally, his arms drop completely. But the shirt stays that way, and there’s a ringing in my ears.

“Baz?” Simon asks, “are you okay?”

I try to nod, but I only manage a quick jerk. The mattress dips–bloody Snow can’t sit still–and I feel the loss of his body heat. At first I think he’s going to stand, but when I turn to look at him he’s staring right back. My breath catches, and his mouth is hanging open. (Mouth breather.)

Our faces are only centimeters apart. I can’t help myself; I close my eyes and relish the feeling of Simon’s hot breath against my lips. The moment seems to drag on, neither of us making a move. I’m about to give up and open my eyes when I feel a hand on my cheek.

And then Simon kisses me.

**Simon**

I’m kissing him. I’m kissing Baz. _Baz_. At first, I’m just pressing my lips to his; Baz isn’t reacting, and then he  _is._  It’s bloody brilliant, the way he’s opening his mouth and letting me brush his tongue with mine. He lets out a quiet moan, and then stops kissing me like he’s embarrassed. But I don’t want him to stop kissing me, so I reach up and tangle my fingers in his hair, dragging his face down to mine, and snog him like I’ve always wanted to.

Now I’m the one who stops the kiss. _Have_ I always wanted this? Baz makes a noise of protest. I don’t leave him unhappy for long as I dive back in with as much enthusiasm as before.

That question can wait. Forever, for all I care. All I care about right now is kissing Baz. Kissing Baz, and feeling his silky-soft hair slip between my fingers. Hearing him gasp as I deepen the kiss until we both lurch back, desperate for air.

“What the hell, Snow?” Baz snaps. (Well it would be a snap, if he wasn’t breathing so fucking hard.) His face is flushed. It’s faint, but it’s there. That’s something I’ve noticed after living with him so long. He can blush like a normal person, just not as much.

Baz blushes around me often. I used to think it was out of anger, but now…

Now I’m not so sure.

The only thing I’m sure of right now is that I have to keep kissing Baz. So I do.

**Baz**

What started as us sitting side by side kissing has led to us stretched out on my bed. Still side by side. Still kissing. Simon is holding me and I’m letting him. It’s absurd; I want to laugh but I don’t want to disturb this perfect moment. When it ends–

I don’t want to think about it ending. Except…except it might not. Something’s changed. I can feel it. Our conversation, however brief, seems to have shifted something in our relationship. That, and the kiss. Crowley, the kiss. Kissing Snow is like all of my fantasies rolled into one, minus the blood and the fighting. I don’t mind, really. I could do without the fighting.

Snow seems to feel the same. He’s holding me close; I don’t know how long we’ve been lying here, but we’ve missed dinner. Snow’s stomach started rumbling a while ago, but we’ve both been ignoring it. The only thing that matters is here. Here. Right now. He’s so close; he’s all around me. I’ve never felt safer.

“Tell me more about your mother,” he says.

I lean into his arms, and I do.


End file.
